


last night's phrases, still writhing on my floor

by peggyolson



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Fic, M/M, Weekend AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggyolson/pseuds/peggyolson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “What am I?”</p><p>“You’re fuckin’ annoying me,” Mickey snaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. friday

**Author's Note:**

> as said in the tags, this is a [weekend](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1714210/) au. previous viewing of the movie isn't necessary but seriously, go watch it if you haven't seen it!

Mickey wonders if he can get away with not taking a shower again today. 

He leans against the sink, stares contemplatively at the hot/cold handle, smells himself. Yeah, no, that’s not good, Mandy will slaughter him if he shows up like this. (She never had a problem with it when they were kids but now that she’s got her own apartment, she’s like a fucking germaphobe or something.) (Admittedly, it's been three days. But still. He’s a grown-ass man; he can do what he wants.) 

He scrubs away the thin layer of dirt on his skin, the one that’s followed him around since childhood, so his fucking sister will be happy. He gets dressed, gets just as stoned as he needs to be to deal with Mandy, and locks the door behind him when he leaves. 

It’s starting to get dark and it’s not like the walk to Mandy’s is long or anything, but he’s already planning on complaining about freezing his balls off when he gets there just to piss her off. He stops at a convenience store a few blocks from her place, picks up a six-pack of the beer she likes because he’s a Great Brother, and walks the rest of the way with his hands in his pockets, plastic bag swinging loosely from his wrist. 

When he trudges in front of her building, he tilts his head back to look up at the window he knows is Mandy’s. The lights are on, silhouetting the dim shapes of people moving around in her kitchen. He hurries up the same three flights of stairs he's taken a thousand times and raps incessantly on the wood when he reaches her door. From inside he hears Mandy yell, “Mickey, I swear to god, I won’t let you in!” and smiles like the jackass he is, knocking even louder. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” is the first thing Mandy says when she opens the door. Her hair is thrown up in a loose ponytail and the skirt she’s wearing looks new. “I have _neighbors_ , douchebag.” 

He grins and hands her the bag. “Peace offering.” 

She snorts, but inspects it curiously, her face lighting up when she sees what’s inside. “You wouldn’t know a peace offering if it bit you in the ass.” She throws herself at him, squeezing his middle tightly, and he hugs back, doesn’t say anything when her hair gets in his mouth. “And you always gotta be late, don’t you?” 

“Last time I shower for you, you ungrateful bitch,” he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek and pushing past her into the apartment. It’s warm and loud and smells incredible, thanks to all the food she has cooking. 

She sets the beer down on the counter in the kitchen as he shrugs off his jacket and throws it carelessly over the back of a chair. She looks at him for a long moment and smiles slowly. “You look good.” 

“Don’t sound so fuckin’ surprised,” he says, immediately softening after he says it. “You, too.” 

He moves into the living room and greets everyone, throws a curt nod her boyfriend's way – she’s been dating the kid, Seth, for about a year now and he’s nice enough, treats her well, tries desperately to win Mickey’s approval. Not like it matters, of course, because even if they're together for the rest of their lives, even if they get married, Mickey'll always be suspicious of him - just the way it has to be. Mandy’s gone through so many southside pieces of shit that if he wasn’t wary of everyone she shacks up with he’d be a fucking idiot. And Mickey's not stupid - he's seen _The Godfather_. 

They’ve fallen into the same circle over the past few years and he’s glad for it. Mickey probably wouldn’t have any actual friends if it weren’t for her, probably wouldn’t do much of anything when he’s not working. He's cool with the people she hangs out with and they seem to at least tolerate him, which is all he needs, really. 

He sits down on the couch next to Seth, who looks fucking overjoyed that Mickey's even giving him the time of day, and passes him the Xbox controller. Mickey proceeds to wipe the floor with every single one of them because he is the Halo _champion,_ make no mistake. 

“I’m the only person who’s ever been able to beat him,” Mandy says smugly as she passes him a beer. 

“That was _once_.” 

“Uh, okay, try like seven times.” 

She flips him off and retreats back into the kitchen, leaving Mickey to listen to her friend Katrina’s (admittedly funny) story about a guy she went on an unsuccessful blind date with last week. 

Mandy has these dinner things about once a month, always at her place, always overflowing with people, always with lots of food and booze and weed. He thinks it’s because of how much she hated having people over when they were younger, how frustrated she’d get when Dad would go on one of his drunken tirades while her friends were there, how bummed she’d be when she was confined to her room because Iggy was passed out on the couch, coming down from whatever the hell he was on that week. Mickey’s always figured that now she has the freedom to do whatever she wants whenever she wants and she’s going to take advantage of it. 

They eat crowded around Mandy's coffee table, a _Seinfeld_ rerun providing the background noise. The table’s packed, just barely holding all of the Tupperware containers that Mandy put the food in: rice, spicy noodles, chicken, roasted potatoes, warm bread. The conversation shifts to talk of wedding plans – Joe and Lauren have been engaged for, like, four years, according to Mandy, and are just now getting their shit together to actually try and get married for real. 

It’s not like they’re Mickey’s favorite people in the world or anything – sometimes he needs to tune Jen out to keep from shoving a fork in his eye – but it’s kind of fun or whatever. Not like he’d ever tell anyone he thinks so, but sometimes he catches Mandy smiling a little easier when he actually looks like he’s having a good time. He doesn’t know why the fuck she feels like she always has to worry about him, but he loves her, you know, he does, and it’s not the worst thing to have someone care about you that much. 

“You gettin’ a stripper, man?” Mickey asks when Joe segues into talk of the bachelor party. 

“ _There’s_ an idea,” Eric agrees, pointing his fork Mickey’s way. 

Lauren shakes her head. “You’re not getting a stripper.” 

“You’re not invited,” Eric says, and Lauren flicks some rice at him. 

Mickey takes a sip of beer, shrugging. “Ain’t it tradition or some shit?”

“Well, fine, if you get one, I want one,” Lauren reasons. 

“If he doesn’t look like Channing Tatum, I don’t care and I won’t come,” Mandy says. 

“I never even agreed to this,” Joe sighs. 

Dinner is followed by dessert – store-bought cookies because Mandy can’t bake for shit – and Mickey doesn’t participate in the cleaning up, which earns him A Look. 

“I don’t fuckin’ live here,” he says. 

Mandy levels him with a glare. “Yeah, _exactly_. That’s why you’re supposed to help, it’s polite, you shithead.” 

He snorts because “Milkovich” and “polite” are two things that have never been associated with each other. “Fuck off, you just don’t wanna do it.” 

“Duh.” 

“I can clean up,” Seth offers, ever the mediator. It makes Mandy smile and Mickey roll his eyes, but asshole doesn't seem to catch that. She throws herself down next to him on the couch and plucks the cigarette out of his mouth because no matter how old they get, she will always be on a relentless quest to steal his shit. 

She grabs her drink off the table and settles back in at his side. “You’re coming on Sunday, right?” 

“Don’t really got a choice, do I?” 

Mandy grins. “Nope.” She passes the cigarette back to him and digs her elbow into his side. “And you have to bring a present or I’ll slit your throat,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“Calm your tits, I already got your fucking present.” 

She starts questioning him about it immediately because she has the patience of a six-year-old with ADHD, but he doesn’t give in. It’s not like he actually cares if she’s surprised or anything but it’s _hilarious_ watching her get all worked up over not knowing. 

“Is it a—” 

He shrugs his jacket on and groans. “Holy shit, Mandy, just wait until Sunday and find out on your goddamn birthday like a normal person.” 

She purses her lips. “Fine. Don’t be late, okay?” 

“So be _really_ late?” he asks sarcastically and she doesn't even dignify that with a response, just pushes him out the door.

 

*

 

Maybe it was all the talk about marriage, maybe it was seeing the way Seth looked at his sister, maybe it’s just the buzz he has from the combination of weed and the couple of shots he’d done – whatever the case may be, Mickey doesn’t go straight home. He has one place in mind when he hops the train, one place in mind when he gets off and traces the familiar steps. 

He and the bouncer exchange nods as he walks into the club and heads toward the bar. There’s a tinny remix of some pop song blaring so loudly over the speakers that Mickey can practically feel every drum beat in his bones. It takes three tries for the bartender to understand what he’s ordering and his drink comes out wrong anyway. 

Dancing has never really been his thing – neither has talking, honestly – which always makes him wonder if he should be going to, like, a gay library instead of a gay club. Or… something. Not like he’d ever consider setting foot inside a library, but— 

Okay, he’s drunk, whatever. 

Just _how_ drunk, though, isn’t clear until he catches himself staring at someone. (For the record, the answer is anywhere from _very_ to _extremely_.) There’s a group of people – two girls, three guys – standing over by a table, laughing like they just walked out of a fucking sitcom. The girls are pretty and two of the dudes aren’t bad looking, but a shock of red hair is what commands Mickey’s attention and sufficiently distracts him. The third guy, easily the youngest in his group (and maybe even one of the youngest in the room), is at least a head taller than Mickey with big, broad shoulders. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs and from there Mickey’s gone, so reluctantly charmed he actually has to look away. 

He doesn’t know what to make of the way he and one of the guys he’s with – the one who looks closer to his age – keep leaning in towards each other, grinning like they know something everyone else doesn’t. One of the girls tries to pull him up to dance but he laughs good-naturedly and excuses himself to the bathroom instead. And Mickey, because he has no semblance of shame or boundaries, follows him. 

The fluorescents are fucking horrendous, but they're not enough to stop Mickey from casting him sidelong glances while they stand at the urinals, hoping by some miracle the kid'll look over (and seriously, when did he stop being able to pick up guys in clubs? Fuck this noise, man) but he doesn’t. From up close, Mickey can see the light, barely there smattering of freckles over his cheekbones, the way his gray t-shirt stretches tight over his chest, the way the muscles in his arms flex when he zips up and walks out. Mickey sighs. 

He lets himself get swept up by some guy whose name he should probably know but he honestly can’t remember, lets him kiss his neck a bit and it’s all right. He’s not the redhead from before, but it’s a solid torso against his own, it’s lips on his skin, and that's good enough. Dude doesn’t take Mickey’s silence or even his scowl as a bad thing and the music (thank god) makes talking to each other out of the question, so, like, not the worst way this night could’ve gone. 

His eyes scan the room while the guy – Jason? Mickey’s just going to call him Jason even though he’s 99% sure that isn’t right – goes to get their drinks refilled and, because the universe is occasionally on his side, he finds the redhead again, this time looking right back at him. They lock eyes and the guy tilts his head a bit and Mickey takes that as invitation, moving through the crowd to meet him halfway. 

“Ian,” he introduces himself, leaning up against the bar. 

“Mickey,” he replies. 

Ian smiles, and he opens his mouth to say something else, but Mickey’s too horny and too drunk for small talk, so he cuts him off and asks, close to his ear, “You wanna talk or you wanna let me take you home?” 

He raises his eyebrows, surprised, and is silenced for a moment before his grin widens. “Yeah. Gimme a second.” 

Mickey feels an incredible swell of satisfaction when Ian goes back over to the people he'd been standing with, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the guy he’d been talking so closely to. He doesn’t stick around to watch their conversation, though, and ducks outside, letting out a relieved breath when cool air hits his face. It’s just starting to drizzle and he stays under the awning, lighting a cigarette while he waits. 

“He don’t mind you leavin'?” Mickey asks when Ian taps him on the shoulder, still smiling as he tugs the hood of his jacket over his head. “That dude?” 

Ian gives him a confused look for a moment before laughing. “He’s my brother.” 

Mickey rubs at the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up. “Oh.” 

Ian laughs again and steals the cigarette right out of his hand before Mickey even knows what’s happening. 

They make it back to Mickey’s apartment each in one piece, and if the fingers drumming on his waist while he fumbles with his keys are any sign, Ian’s as impatient as he is. Once inside, Ian presses him up against the door, kissing him roughly, the way Mickey likes it. They kiss like it’s fighting: hands tearing urgently at clothes as Mickey leads them to the bedroom, biting hard at each other’s lips, each of them battling for dominance. 

If he were that desperate, the smirk Ian gives him before shoving him into bed probably would be enough to make him come right on the spot.

 

*

 

The first words out of Mickey’s mouth the next morning are, “Shut the fuck up, Jesus Christ, _shut the fuck up_ ,” because he forgot to turn the alarm off last night, shit, shit, shit. He slaps a hand around blindly until there's a muted clatter, which he assumes is the clock falling off the nightstand and dying the horrible, painful death it deserves. Next to him there’s a soft laugh, the sound of blankets rustling, and when he rolls over he’s face-to-face with a pale, freckled shoulder. His head is pounding and his mouth tastes like he licked a fucking toilet seat but he still has to bite down a smile. 

This is how the rest of Mickey's morning goes: He all but drags himself to the bathroom, body protesting every step. He drops his toothbrush twice, looks away from his reflection in the mirror, and trips over a pair of boxers on his way to the kitchen. He makes a pot of coffee but only after a short struggle where he finds the old filter still there from yesterday, _awesome_ , and leans his head against the wall while he waits for it to finish. (Maybe if he just stands here long enough the sun will go away.) (It doesn't.) 

Ian’s sitting up when he comes back into the bedroom, naked except for the blanket haphazardly strewn over his lap, looking around at the posters on Mickey’s walls, and he can't help it, his first thought is _seriously,_ no one should ever look that good in the morning. Ian's hair is tousled from sex and sleep, his eyes bleary, his lips a bit swollen from the night before. Mickey hasn’t seen himself yet but if he had to guess, he'd assume that he looks like someone hit him with a car. Several cars. Multiple times. And if that isn't just a bunch of karmic bullshit, he doesn't know what is. 

“Hey,” Ian says around a yawn, accepting the mug that Mickey hands him. He’s not usually into hanging out the morning after and you'd best be goddamn sure he never goes out of his way to make coffee for a one-night stand, but if he's being honest, part of him is hoping for one more round.

He remembers the feel of Ian’s mouth on his cock, the way his arm felt wrapped around Mickey’s waist as he slid into him from behind. _Fuck_. 

“Hey,” Mickey mutters, scorching his tongue when he takes a sip from his own mug. 

“How you feeling?” 

“Like every fuckin’ truck in Chicago ran me over.” 

Ian nods solemnly, like he agrees. “When do you have work?” 

“Eleven.” 

“Mm. We got time, then,” Ian says, giving him a pleased little smile that goes right to Mickey’s dick. (It doesn't take a lot in the morning, it really doesn't.) He tosses the covers on Mickey’s side back, nodding his head toward the empty space, and when Mickey slides in next to him he tells himself that he doesn’t do it because he wants to be close to Ian, it’s just that his apartment is freezing and he's wearing nothing but his underwear, alright, so fuck off. 

Mickey lights a cigarette and offers it to Ian after taking the first drag. They share it while they drink their coffee quietly and Mickey's surprised by how incredibly _not_ weird it is. 

“You were wasted last night,” Ian says conversationally, as if Mickey had asked. 

Mickey sets his mug aside and grabs another cigarette from the pack. He blows smoke in Ian’s face by way of response. “Yeah, well. Shit happens." 

“And that guy you were with gave me a _death glare_ when he saw us leaving together." 

Mickey looks him up and down, pulls a face. “You coulda taken him, man.” 

Ian shrugs. “I was kind of distracted.” He glances at Mickey and moves in close; Mickey instinctively leans away, raising an eyebrow incredulously. 

“Fuck are you doin’?” 

“Did you brush your teeth?” 

Mickey pushes at Ian’s chest until he backs up. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “You… not into that kinda thing?”

“Just thought it was like an unspoken rule when you fuck someone not to leave ‘em hanging,” Ian reasons, stretching his arms above his head, arching his back. Mickey follows the line of his body with his eyes and momentarily forgets what they’re talking about. “You know, you smell all minty and I smell like ass. Doesn’t seem fair.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “ _Not fair_. Jesus, you sound like my sister.” 

“Why, is your sister brilliant?” 

“My sister’s an asshole,” Mickey replies, which makes Ian laugh. He considers him for a moment, taking another drag. “Why was your brother your date to a gay bar? I ain't judging or anything but—” 

“Fuck you,” Ian snorts. “No, I wasn’t even planning on going, but he offered.” He looks up at Mickey’s questioning look and clarifies, “He’s not into dudes, just thought I needed to get laid, which apparently I can't do by myself. And then my sister wanted to come and then _her_ friends wanted to come and it just turned into this whole thing.” 

He imagines Mandy trying to find him a guy to sleep with and he can actually hear himself laughing in her face. There are a million places he’d never want to go with her but he’s sure that 'gay bar' is at the very top of that list. “Well, you got laid.” 

Ian grins. “That I did.” He tilts his head back, forming a perfect ‘O’ with his mouth and blowing out a ring of smoke. It’s almost stupidly hot. “I’m not usually a big club person but I’m kinda glad I went last night.” He throws Mickey a significant look. 

“It was a good time, man,” Mickey says, going for nonchalant, but he can tell by the way the corners of Ian’s mouth turn up just so that he didn’t achieve it at all. 

“Yeah?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that, you know you’re—” He cuts himself off because, nope, absolutely not, he just met this kid and he’s not going to start saying things he’ll only end up regretting. He needs to keep the upper hand here. 

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “What am I?” 

“You’re fuckin’ annoying me,” Mickey snaps. 

Ian beams back and Mickey figures now’s as good a time as any, so he leans in and slams their mouths together. There’s no hesitation, Ian just kisses him back like he’d been ready for it. He takes the cigarette from Ian's hand and reaches toward the ashtray on the nightstand with a practiced precision, stubbing it out before setting his hands on Ian’s hips, not breaking their kiss for a second. 

It’s nice, kissing Ian. If he’s being honest, Mickey doesn’t do it with too many people, doesn't usually let things get to that point with most guys, but as far as shoving your tongue down someone else's throat goes, this is one of the better experiences he’s had. Ian’s lips are chapped and he tastes like cigarettes and coffee and stale tequila, but it doesn't bother Mickey. The material of his boxers is thin enough that when Ian grabs him he can practically feel how calloused his hand is and it’s fucking _magical_. 

Ian fucks him, not as rough as last night, but slower and lazier and somehow hotter; Mickey would be embarrassed by how quickly he comes if not for Ian following him moments later, gasping into his neck. 

“Are you out?” Ian asks him afterwards while they’re lying side by side, their knees touching under the covers. 

Mickey makes a face. Jesus Christ. “Where’d that come from?"

Ian shrugs and lifts one of Mickey’s hands in his own, running his fingers over the tattoos on his knuckles. Mickey says nothing. “Just curious.” 

“Yeah,” he replies after a long pause where he watches Ian toy with his hand. “I’m, yeah. Mandy, my sister, she knows. My friends.” 

“No one else?” 

Mickey pulls away and sits up, frowning. “Fuck off, man.” 

Ian stays down but rolls onto his side. Mickey can feel his eyes on him and it makes him angry. “Sorry, sorry.” 

He glances down at him. “Not everyone's got a family who'll drop everything just to come to a gay bar with 'em.” 

The look on Ian’s face is unreadable.

 

*

 

Ian says something about having to go see his little sister’s school play this afternoon (“How many kids you got in that house?” “Counting me, six.” “Damn.” “Yeah, not the first time we've gotten that reaction.”) and Mickey knows that he has to start getting ready for work, so they dress quietly and Mickey walks him out because it seems like the thing to do or whatever. 

At Ian’s suggestion, they exchange numbers (Gallagher is his last name, Mickey finds out, and of _course_ he’s Irish, how did he not guess that?) which is so not Mickey’s deal at all, but something in that smile keeps fucking with his judgment. 

Mickey rests his shoulder against the doorway as Ian walks out, hands in his pockets. He inclines his head like he’s going to lean in and kiss him but Mickey rears back because Carla, his neighbor, chooses that moment to come out into the hall, holding the hand of some guy he doesn’t recognize, leading him to the elevator. 

Ian watches them for a second and then looks back at Mickey with a small, knowing smile. (If he were the kind of person to read into things he might even say he looks disappointed, but he’s not that kind of person so shut up.) Mickey rubs at his jaw and keeps his expression neutral. 

“Well,” Ian says dryly, grabbing Mickey’s hand and giving it a firm shake. If handshakes could be sarcastic, this one would be an episode of _Roseanne_. “It was _great_ to meet you, Mickey.” 

Mickey flips him off and watches as Ian trudges towards the elevator, getting on with Carla’s boyfriend, and then he’s gone. He sighs heavily and lets the door slam behind him on his way back inside. 

Ian’s belt is inexplicably lying on the kitchen floor when he goes to puts the mugs in the sink and Mickey can’t help it, he laughs. Asshole.


	2. saturday, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe, some small part of him thinks, he wants ian to know this.

Mickey’s headache hasn’t ceased at all but he still manages to get to work on time, clocking in at exactly 10:58. He’s never been crazy about working day shifts – even though everyone in the bar before six PM makes him feel _extraordinarily_ okay with his own life – but in the grand scheme of things, having most of his nights off is a pretty good deal. He still deals weed on the side (and the harder shit, too, but only on special occasions), which arguably pays better, but he needs a Real People Job so he doesn’t lose his fucking mind with boredom. 

“Bartender moonlighting as a drug dealer,” Mandy had said once, high off her ass. “You’re like ghetto Batman.” 

He makes a few drinks and wipes down the bar and only has to clean up vomit once so it’s a fairly uneventful morning. He feels the heavy weight of his phone in the back pocket of his jeans and on his smoke break he stares at Ian’s name in his contacts for a full five minutes before manning up and drafting a text. He backspaces and re-types the same few words approximately eighty-seven times before settling on a very articulate _i feel like shit_. 

Next to him, Rob loudly describes the tits of a girl he was with a few nights ago. Mickey hates working with this scumbag because he hates knowing he even exists. 

“Did you fuck her?” Brent (the only asshole there who hasn’t learned to tune the fucker out) asks. 

His phone buzzes and he just manages to keep it from falling out of his hand when he sees the text is from Ian. _Wonder why. How’s your delicate head?_  

 _watch the fuckin attitude,_ Mickey types back, grinning down at the screen. 

“Nah, she wouldn’t let me,” Rob says, and Mickey has to hold back a laugh. No shit she wouldn’t.

Brent apparently catches the look on his face and nudges him; Mickey pockets his phone immediately. “Whoa, Mickey’s smiling, I think hell just froze over.” 

“Who you talking to, dude?” 

“None of your fucking business."

“Oh, there he is,” Brent laughs. 

Rob’s eyebrows shoot up and he nods approvingly. “I think he got laid.” 

Mickey doesn’t even have the energy to come up with some smartass thing to say to that. He stomps out his cigarette and goes back inside without a word to either of them. He hides his phone behind a bottle of bourbon and types out another message: _done at four if you wanna do something_. He hits send before he can talk himself out of it and his stomach jumps when Ian asks for the address. He spends the rest of his shift on edge, or on more of an edge than usual. 

He’s shoving his arms through his sweatshirt sleeves as he walks outside, holding back a smile when he sees Ian sitting on the curb, messing around on his phone. He looks less disheveled than he had that morning, actually kind of hot in his plaid button-up and dark jeans. 

He prods Ian’s arm with the toe of his sneaker and Ian grins as he clambers to his feet. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out two blue gel caps, pressing them into Mickey’s hand. “Aleve,” he explains. “My sister swears by this shit.” 

Mickey nods his thanks and doesn’t wince when he takes them both dry. “The one in the play?” 

“Not so much, she’s a little too young for hangovers,” Ian quips as they start walking in the direction of Mickey’s apartment. “No, the one with me last night.”

“How’d that thing go?” He doesn’t know why he asks. 

“The play? Awesome,” Ian says, practically radiating with pride. “Debs was the best part, obviously.” 

“ _Obviously_ ,” he mocks, dodging the half-hearted punch Ian throws at him with a snicker. “That why you look all nice?” 

A surprised little smirk tugs at the corners of Ian’s mouth. “You think I look nice?” 

Mickey groans because Ian Gallagher has got to be the most oblivious person he’s ever met. Either that or he’s fishing for compliments. “If you’re gonna be all weird about it then no, you look like shit.” 

Ian laughs, loud and genuine, and after a moment he asks, “So you’re a bartender, huh?” 

“That’s my fucking privilege,” Mickey says. “You work around here?” 

Ian's face falls a bit. If he has to hear some sob story about how this kid lost his job or something, he’ll push him into traffic without a bit of remorse. 

“Not really.” And nothing could’ve prepared Mickey for what he says next: “I’m in the army.” 

“Shit,” Mickey says, nodding as he processes the information. That's… not even kind of what he was expecting. 

“I’m an Officer,” Ian explains, and Mickey wonders if the easy smile he’s been flashing at him since they met is as prominent when he’s doing his patriotic duty or whatever. 

“Look a little young for that, man.” 

Ian smiles. “I worked hard for it.” 

“Damn. How’d I not already know?” 

“Don’t feel bad,” Ian says and Mickey rolls his eyes — he doesn’t. “We didn’t exactly do a lot of talking last night.” His shoulder bumps against Mickey’s gently. “Do you like bartending?” 

“Do you like the army?” Mickey throws it back at him, because he is the master of deflection. 

“I do,” Ian says and he sounds so fucking sincere that it makes Mickey feel like there’s a lump in his throat. 

“I’m no _Officer_ ,” he teases, and Ian makes a face at him. “But bartending’s alright. Could be a hell of a lot worse, you know?” 

“My friend Kev owns a bar,” Ian tells him, as if Mickey cares. “He was with me last night, too.” He pauses for a second and adds, “He used to let my brother and me drink there when we were, like, thirteen.” 

Mickey chuckles, thinking of how his brothers had him smoking at eleven, how they’d make fun of him when he coughed too hard. “He ever cut you off?” 

“Oh, hell yeah,” Ian says, laughing. “I used to be _really_ small so it’d only take like, one and a half drinks before I was bombed.” 

Mickey gives him a dubious look, not able to picture Gallagher small in any sense of the word, and Ian just shrugs. 

“You hungry?” Ian makes a noncommittal noise. “Well, I’m fucking starvin’ and my fridge is pathetic, so we’re getting food.” 

They end up at a pizza place a few blocks from Mickey’s building and spend a truly offensive amount of money on pizza and other overly greasy shit. (Ian insists on paying for it all, which pisses Mickey off because he doesn’t _need_ people to pay for him, he’s not a goddamn charity case, but as it happens, Gallagher’s as much of a stubborn fuck as he is.) Ian carries the pizza home without qualms and Mickey keeps a tight hold the paper bag full of fries, wings, and garlic bread. 

“You’re such a goddamn liar,” Mickey scoffs. “I can _hear_ your stomach, man.” 

Ian smirks. “You know what, I’m not liking the tone. I’ll drop this on the ground, see if I care.” 

“Think I won’t eat it off the sidewalk?” Mickey challenges. Either way, he keeps a close eye on him the whole rest of the way back, but the worst Ian does is crack open the box to steal a piece of pepperoni.

 

*

 

“This might honestly be the saddest fridge I’ve ever seen,” Ian says while Mickey sets plates out on the small table that’s pushed up against the wall in his kitchen. 

“Hey, kid,” Mickey says, glancing up at him. “I told you to get beers, not judge my life.” 

“ _Including_ ,” Ian continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “All the times when my family was broke as fuck and we had no food.” He turns around, holding two bowls in his hands, a bemused look on his face. “ _Why_ do you have a bunch of empty bowls in here?” 

“Decoration,” Mickey deadpans, giving him a thoroughly unamused look. 

“Three bottles of hot sauce, possibly expired cheese, a shitton of butter, sweet and sour sauce – oh, well, you need that.” 

Mickey reaches past him and grabs two beers from the bottom shelf since evidently Ian’s fucking occupied. 

“I’m really liking all the multiples of things,” Ian notes. “Cool brown carrots, by the way, those totally aren’t old.” 

Mickey grabs a slice of pizza and throws it on his plate as aggressively as possible. “You done?” 

“Do I _look_ done?” 

“God, I fuckin’ hope so.” 

Ian smirks and closes the fridge, but he still doesn’t come and sit down. Instead he starts messing with those stupid letter magnets that Mandy had gotten him for Christmas a few years ago; they’re absurd and not Mickey’s style at all – which is probably why Mandy bought them in the first place, honestly – but he can never bring himself to get rid of them. This is apparently why. 

“What’re you writin’?” 

“Nothing,” Ian says mildly. 

“I swear to god, I’ll eat this whole pizza myself, I’m not even kind of exaggerating,” Mickey threatens, which gets Ian’s attention and draws him away from the fridge. When he moves, Mickey sees that he spelled out the word ‘faggot’ with the colorful plastic letters. 

He sits down and steals a fry off Mickey’s plate, smiles at him over the rim of his beer. Mickey kind of wants to kick him in the face but like, in a good way. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Oh yeah, I love questions,” Mickey says dryly. 

“Great,” Ian says, ignoring his tone. “So – okay, about this morning. With your neighbor.” 

Mickey sighs heavily. “Jesus, don’t make that into somethin’ it’s not.” 

“No, no, no,” Ian says quickly, holding up a hand. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, I have a real question. Why is it, you know, such a thing? You got all weird when you saw her but she and that guy were making out in front of the elevator for like, five minutes.” And he doesn't want to admit it, but Ian honestly doesn’t sound like a dick, he just sounds _curious_ , which is maybe why Mickey even bothers indulging him at all. 

“It’s just one of them things,” he insists, poking at his crust. “What do they say to kids? Just ‘cause everyone else is doing it doesn’t mean you have to? And then that thing about jumpin’ off a bridge.” 

Ian laughs. “You should teach.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Do I get a real answer?” 

Mickey leans back in his chair and rubs a thumb across his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know what you wanna hear, man.” All Ian does is pick at his food patiently while he waits for Mickey to think about his answer. “Look, just ‘cause my fucking neighbor wants to parade it around in front of everybody doesn’t mean I have to. If I did everything Carla does, I’d probably be snorting coke in a bathroom right now.” 

Ian nods and chews a mouthful of pizza thoughtfully. “Would it be different if you were with a girl?” 

Mickey laughs incredulously. This fucking guy, Jesus. “How the fuck am I supposed to answer that?” 

“Listen, I’m not accusing you of anything,” Ian says. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about, you know, like, wouldn’t it be so much easier if people were more open about sex?” 

Mickey dismisses him right away. “Okay, but I had to listen to some piece of shit at work go on for, like, ten minutes about this chick he fingered and not for a fucking second did I think, “Well, goddamn, at least he’s being _open_ about it.”” 

Ian smiles. “But he’s not gay.” 

And right then, Mickey gets where he’s going with this, why they’re talking about it at all. “No,” he confirms, his voice quiet. 

“There you go,” Ian says with an air of finality. “Gay people never talk about sex in public. I think it’s because they’re ashamed.” 

“Maybe some people don’t want that shit out for everybody to see,” Mickey says. “You sure you’re in the army?” 

Ian gives him a confused smile. “What?” 

“You sound like one of them homo philosophers or something.” 

“Nope, not smart enough for philosophy,” Ian replies easily. “Better at firing a gun.” 

Mickey looks down at his empty plate and flicks wing sauce at Ian. He throws some stray cheese right back and Mickey responds by taking an entire piece of bread and tossing it at his face. Ian snorts, a full-out _snort_ , which makes Mickey laugh, and he thinks this might somehow be gayer than the fact that he’s taken it up the ass twice in twenty-four hours. 

They put the dishes in the sink and Ian stands behind him, idly knocking his chin against Mickey’s shoulder and setting a tentative hand on his waist, playing absently with his belt loops. He presses a kiss to his neck and Mickey leans back into him, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. He doesn't hate it.

 

*

 

They move into the living room and Mickey throws himself down on the couch while Ian looks around the apartment with interest. He cracks open a window and then shuffles over to the couch while Mickey rolls a joint, which Ian declines when it's offered to him. They find a pack of gum inside a drawer while they’re looking for a lighter and Mickey finds out that Ian is completely incapable of blowing a bubble, and for some reason, it’s the funniest fucking thing _ever_. (He blames the weed.) 

They sit close on his ugly little couch, close enough for Mickey to reach out and touch Ian if he wants. He doesn’t, but he likes having the option. 

“Your family know?” He can’t say what compels him to ask, but Ian doesn’t seem to mind, understands what he’s talking about right away. 

“Mhm,” he hums. 

“Like, your parents.” 

Ian hesitates and Mickey can’t help feeling a juvenile sort of triumph; for once he’s not the one on the spot. “They know,” he says slowly. “But they don’t… give a shit.” He laughs humorlessly, dragging his gaze up to stare at the ceiling. “Not because they’re really accepting or anything, they actually just _don’t_ give a shit. Because it’s got nothing to do with them.” 

The bitterness in Ian’s voice is new, something Mickey would never think to associate him with. 

“Damn,” Mickey remarks. 

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. He unsuccessfully tries to blow another bubble. “My dad caught me with a guy when I was younger but, like, I could’ve been fucking a _dog_ and he wouldn’t have cared. Not unless that dog could’ve gotten him booze or cash, anyway.” 

“You and him ain’t too close, huh,” Mickey says. It’s not a question. 

“Understatement,” Ian says. “He, uh. He told my mom. She tried to help me ‘accept myself,’ that kind of bullshit.” He plays with a loose thread on his jeans, goes quiet for a minute. “She was never really around but every time she showed up when we were kids, she’d try to, like, connect with us or whatever. Not like it mattered, she always left again anyway, you know?” 

And if there’s anything Mickey knows, it’s family shit. He nods. 

“I’m not too broken up about it,” Ian assures him. “My brothers and sisters were the ones I was freaked about telling.” 

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “They all cool with it?” 

Ian nods vigorously. “My brother, Lip, he forced it out of me. First person I ever told. Fiona, my older sister, she said she’d always kinda known.” He shrugs and adds, “I didn’t tell the younger ones for a while but, I mean, they’re kids. And they’ve never looked at me any different and that’s all that matters.” He bites at his thumbnail and grins sheepishly. “Which is an insanely long way of saying yeah, my family knows.” 

One corner of Mickey's mouth twitches with a smile he doesn't let out. 

“How ‘bout you?” 

And Mickey could tell him to fuck off, right, because he’s done more talking with Ian today than he’s done in his entire life, probably. He’s never been the kind of person who believed in that whole tit for tat thing; say what you want, but don’t expect anything back. Mickey tells people what he wants them to know – nothing more, nothing less. 

So maybe, some small part of him thinks, he wants Ian to know this.

“Never telling my dad because I like having all my limbs intact,” Mickey says, and shakes his head when Ian winces. “No, stop, okay? It's all about survival in my family, man, just how it's gotta to be.” He sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck, and continues, “My mom died when I was nine.” He waves off Ian’s condolences. “Don’t be. She was on so much shit, she was barely even there to begin with.” 

Ian nods like he understands. 

“If I told my brothers they probably wouldn’t even remember an hour later,” Mickey says, as if that justifies anything, but it makes Ian laugh a bit. 

“Your sister knows, though, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“She okay with it?” 

“She’s _Mandy_ ,” Mickey replies, by way of explanation. “Think she just wants me to be happy, dumb as that sounds.” 

“That’s nice,” Ian murmurs, sounding so honest that Mickey has to avert his eyes. He reaches out to touch the side of Mickey’s face, running his finger over his lips, his jawline. Mickey relaxes into it, his own hand coming up to close around Ian’s wrist, rubbing a thumb absently over his skin. They look at each other for a long, quiet moment. 

When they kiss, Ian tastes like artificial fruit and leftover garlic and it should be a thousand times more disgusting than it is. Mickey slips into his lap, lets Ian take his shirt off slowly, likes the sweet, lazy way he touches him. Mickey squeezes him over his jeans, tilts his head to give up the expanse of his neck to Ian's mouth. And then Mickey’s riding him, sliding down on Ian’s cock in one smooth push, letting out a breathless laugh at the wrecked sound Ian makes. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Ian grinds out, voice deep and rough and muffled against Mickey's shoulder. His hands are everywhere they can reach, fingers running over the scattered freckles on Mickey’s ribs, the scar on his thigh. He’s kissing Mickey’s shoulders while he jerks him off and Mickey's rolling his hips in this way that makes Ian gasp and it’s so fucking good, so _fucking_ good. 

Ian shudders violently through his orgasm, biting so hard on Mickey's neck he's sure it'll leave a mark.

 

*

 

They clean themselves up and Ian follows him to his room, watching from the bed while Mickey puts on a new tank top. He turns around and has to laugh because, yeah, Ian's shirt is buttoned wrong. No better sign of a recently fucked person than messed up clothes. 

Ian snickers, looking in a mirror as he fixes it. “If I went home like that Lip wouldn’t let me live it down.” 

“Sounds like a dick,” Mickey remarks as he walks Ian to the door for the second time that day. 

Ian laughs. “Yup, that’d be him.” He smiles, hands in his pockets. “Thanks for today. It was fun.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says simply. 

“I’ll call you later,” Ian replies, looking a bit uncertain. He leans down to peck Mickey’s lips and throws a wave over his shoulder as he leaves. 

Mickey drums his fingers against the wall for a second before nodding to himself and turning to walk back into his room, but before he can get anywhere there’s a knock at his door. 

He raises his eyebrows when he sees Ian standing there, looking like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. “Hi?” 

“Hi,” Ian says quickly. “Look, there’s something I didn’t tell you.” 

Mickey hates that he can feel his face falling, hates even more that he can't do anything to stop it. “What, you got a boyfriend or some shit?” 

“No,” he says, exhaling slowly. “I’m going away tomorrow.” 

“Where?” 

Ian shifts on his feet for a moment before he speaks. “Getting deployed again.” 

Mickey swallows, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers. “Shit, I thought you meant like a vacation.” 

“I should’ve said something,” Ian says softly. 

“You don’t owe me nothing, man,” Mickey insists, kicking his bare foot against the floor. 

Ian shrugs, forcing a smile, and moves in to kiss Mickey’s cheek. “Okay, um. I told you, so I’m really going now.” 

Mickey hasn’t even shut the door before Ian’s barreling into the apartment again, standing so close that Mickey’s eyes take a minute to focus on him. 

“Hey, um, what are you doing tonight?” He doesn't give Mickey the chance to answer before he continues, talking so fast his words almost blend together. “Because Lip and Fiona are taking me out for drinks and some of my friends are gonna be there and it’d be cool if you came – but you don’t have to, I don’t want to put pressure on you or anything, so. Yeah.” He finally takes a breath and braces Mickey’s arms, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll text you and you can do whatever you want, it’s up to you. Good? Alright.” 

Mickey doesn’t respond and he doesn’t think Ian expects him to because he’s off again a second later. His footsteps have long faded away by the time Mickey moves out of his doorway.

 

*

 

When he passes the kitchen, his gaze catches on the refrigerator door, where ‘faggot’ is still spelled out, the word almost mocking the brightly colored magnets. Mickey leaves it there. 

He sits down in the same spot Ian had been in moments earlier and spends too long searching for the remote. (It's inexplicably under the couch.) There’s a censored version of _Pineapple Express_ on that’s funnier than the actual movie and he obviously watches it. 

He’s lighting a cigarette when his phone buzzes, groaning when he sees who it is. 

“What?” he answers by way of greeting. 

“Hi, happy,” Mandy chirps. “I’m bored and Seth’s got some family thing tonight, come over.” 

He rubs at his eyes. Fuck. “I’m busy tonight.” 

Mandy snorts and Mickey thinks for what must be the millionth time in his life that she’s the bane of his entire existence. “With _what?_ ” 

“With my fucking plans.” 

“Is it like a work thing?” 

“It’s a _thing_ thing, Jesus Christ.” 

“Oh my god, wait, is it a guy?” She takes his silence as answer enough and he hates how well she knows him. “Mickey, that’s great. Look at you, being a real person.” 

He gets up and pads over to the window, which is still open from when Ian had decided his living room needed air, and props himself up on his elbows, flicking some ashes away. “Shut up.” 

“When’d you meet him?” 

“Other night at a bar.” Hell fucking no is he telling her that he left her dinner thing to go to a gay club, she’ll be screaming about it until they’re ninety.

“What’s his name?” 

He hesitates, staring down his cigarette contemplatively. “Ian.” 

“ _Ian,_ ” she says teasingly and Jesus Christ, if she were here he’d give her the titty twister of her life. “Ooh, you should bring him tomorrow.” 

Mickey laughs, completely unamused. Fuck his fucking life, man. “Yeah, no.” 

“Come on, I won’t embarrass you.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Am I _four?_ ” 

“Depends on the day.” 

“Mandy, Jesus, he’s—” Mickey sighs, accidentally pulling some skin off his lip with his teeth when he bites too hard. “He’s leaving tomorrow. Goin' away.” 

“Where’s he going?” 

“Stop with the fucking questions for two seconds of your life, will ya?” He can hear her start to protest but he cuts her off quickly. “I gotta go, okay? I’ll talk to you later.” 

She sighs. “Yeah, whatever. See you tomorrow, right?” 

“No,” he says sarcastically. She calls him a fuckhead and he hangs up on her, stabbing repeatedly at the ‘end’ button until the phone gets confused and just shuts off. He smokes and silently tries to work out all the ways he could reasonably blame this on Mandy. (For the record, he can’t even think of one. He’s losing his touch.)

 

*

 

Ian’s text comes after he gets out of the shower and, he thinks, what else can he do? Sit at home and complain to an empty apartment about how there’s nothing on TV? As if he hasn’t done that enough nights for a lifetime. 

So he goes. He gets dressed and he hops on the L and he fucking goes. 

A group of kids who look like they could be in college ride along with him and Mickey hates the fuck out of each one of them the minute they open their mouths. 

“ _Definitely_ looks gay,” says one of the girls knowledgeably. 

The dude who has his arm around her shoulder grins. “He’s got that, you know—” And the shithead actually gets up out of his seat to imitate his idea of a “gay walk” or whatever, which has his friends in hysterics for what feels like seven hours. 

Mickey rubs at his jaw, remembers when he was a temperamental teenager who went into each day guns blazing. Not much has changed: he’s grown into an equally temperamental adult, only now he picks his fights better. And this skinny little prick definitely isn’t worth it. 

Something in the universe must be looking out for his sanity because they’re off at the stop before his. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and unclenches his fists. 

It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to find the address Ian gave him, mostly because he’s expecting an entirely different type of place. The Alibi Room, he notes immediately, is definitely not a gay bar. It’s older, less seedy, could easily be looked over if you’re not looking _for_ it. There’s no fucking dancing, which is great news, and the music is more like background noise instead of the deafening beat from the night before. He spots Ian right away, sitting at a table of people Mickey can only assume are the rest of his little Brady Bunch family. He and his brother are clinking their glasses against each other and doing that thing again, that thing where they laugh like they're in on something no one else knows. It makes Mickey feel like he’s intruding. 

Lip spots him first, standing there in front of the door like a tool, and all he does is raise an eyebrow, sizing him up for a moment before elbowing Ian in the ribs. The look on Ian’s face makes his stomach jump because he’s the definition of pathetic: his eyes light up, dimples sliding into place when he smiles that easy, open smile. He looks a little buzzed when he slouches over. 

“I didn’t expect you to come,” Ian says, tucking his hands in his pockets, looking overly pleased. 

Mickey's eyebrows slant together. “No?” 

“Not really.” 

“Well, I’m here.” 

One corner of Ian’s mouth turns up. “You are.” 

Mickey clears his throat and casts a quick look around. “Why this place?” 

“It’s Kev’s bar, remember I was telling you?” Ian jabs a thumb over his shoulder. He recognizes the guy, Kev, towel draped over his shoulder and making out with some chick who looks vaguely familiar, too. Ian gives him an amused smile, like he’s used to it. “That’d be Veronica. They’re married. Come on, I’ll get you a drink.” And he means that literally: he leads Mickey to the bar and leans over it, pouring him a beer like he’s done it a hundred times. 

“Hey!” Kev comes over and swats Ian’s hands away until he moves back with a laugh, handing the glass to Mickey. “Just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean you have free reign.” 

“Sorry,” Ian says, not sounding it at all. “Kev, V, this is Mickey. From the bar yesterday?” 

They both stare at him for a second before Veronica finally says, " _Oh,_ " drawing the word out.

And Mickey decides he’s definitely _not_ okay with the identical grins on their faces, like they _know_ something about him, but Ian tugs him away before he has to speak to them. He meets a few of Ian’s friends and all of his siblings, even the toddler, Liam, who says Ian's name like "Eeeeen" and smiles at everything. The kids, Debbie and Carl, lose interest with Mickey quickly, but Lip and Fiona are _fascinated_. Veronica joins them after a few minutes and then all of a sudden there are three sets of eyes fucking staring at Mickey like he’s a goddamn animal at the zoo. He downs his beer as quickly as possible; he’s not nearly drunk enough for this. 

Mickey’s getting another (stronger, god, so much stronger) drink when someone walks up next to him. 

“Having fun?” Lip asks, a little smirk on his face that Mickey guesses is permanent. 

“It’s fine,” Mickey mutters. He looks around for Ian, spots him holding Liam up so he can play with the jukebox, and Mickey can’t help the laugh that comes out when he smacks Ian in the nose with his tiny fist. _Me too, kid,_ he thinks. 

“Well, I’m pretty sure he likes you,” Lip says, reaching over and swiping Mickey’s glass right from his hand while he’s distracted. Mickey makes an indignant noise and holds it out of reach when Lip hands it back, just to be safe. “I mean, he came home this morning and he didn’t have a story for me. He _always_ has a story.” 

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “Fuck does that mean?” 

“You know, something weird the guy did, something he said, something about his house, that kinda shit,” Lip says, and Mickey has no idea what to make of the look he’s giving him. “But nothing about you, dude.” 

Mickey swallows, shrugging a bit. 

Lip grins. “Then again, there’s still time.” 

Mickey levels him with a scowl. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“Oh yeah, that he did tell me,” he says, laughing. “About the, uh, the moodiness.” 

“He told you I was _moody?_ ” Mickey shakes his head. Of course. “Asshole.” 

Lip's quiet for a moment before he says, “My family’s kind of got a bone to pick with you.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah, my sisters were pissed that Ian was gone all afternoon.” 

Mickey almost snorts and says something about co-dependency but then he remembers, right, the fucking _army_. Shit. “I didn’t know, man. That he was leaving, uh – he didn’t tell me until a few hours ago.” 

Lip waves it off and sighs distractedly, glancing over at Ian. “I mean, I’m proud as hell of him, but – doesn’t mean I have to like it, you know?” 

Mickey nods even though he doesn’t. He doesn’t even _kind of_ know. 

He gives Mickey another once-over and it makes him mad for some reason - that's all these people seem to do, _look_ at him. He frowns and takes a sip from his drink because he’s not going to get into a fight with Ian’s fucking brother over nothing, not here, not now. 

(Being a rational adult is hard and annoying and shitty.) 

“He hasn’t brought a guy around in a while,” Lip tells him, which, okay, gets his interest. “Yeah, no one since Zach – did he tell you about Zach?” 

“No,” Mickey says. He bites hard at the inside of his cheek, tries not to look too much like he’s hanging on Lip’s every word. 

Lip nods, leaning in towards Mickey like he doesn’t want anyone to overhear. “They were together while Ian was at West Point. He was always fucking around on him when Ian was gone, apparently he had another boyfriend or something.” He shakes his head, his mouth set in an unhappy line. “I was pissed, but Ian kept saying it didn’t matter even though it _did_ , and then around the time they broke up, Zach got the shit kicked out of him in a parking lot.” 

Mickey just raises his eyebrows. 

“See, I thought he deserved it, but Ian’s a better person than I am,” Lip says with a wry smile. “Found out later it was this gay-bashing thing. Anyway, it fucked him up. You’re the first guy we’ve met in a few years.” 

And he has no idea what to say to that, but he understands the look Lip gives him – understands it because it’s the same one he’s given to every asshole who’s ever come within five feet of Mandy. 

His mouth goes dry. 

“Whatever, man,” Mickey says, and it comes out harsher than he was intending. 

Lip smirks like he was expecting that kind of response. “Shit. You _are_ fun.” 

Then Fiona’s calling his name from across the room and Lip’s leaving like it’s nothing, like Mickey's mind isn't racing. It takes him longer to notice than he'd like to admit that Lip stole his drink.

 

*

 

Lip leaves him alone for the rest of the night and after a while Ian comes to sit down on the barstool next to him. Mickey hates the warm feeling he gets in his chest. They look at each other for a moment, Ian’s head propped up in his hand, wearing that stupid smile of his. Mickey opens his mouth, rethinks it, glances away. 

“What?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Nothin’.” 

“You look like you wanna kiss me,” Ian teases, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously. 

Mickey gives him a bored look but doesn’t deny it. 

“You can, you know.” 

They lock eyes and Mickey hesitates. He could. He _could_. 

“Nah,” he says simply and doesn’t look away quickly enough to miss the way Ian’s smile falters just a bit. 

Kev sends them over two shots of vodka, grinning when he says they’re on the house. They toss them back and then Ian says the best thing he could've possibly said in that moment: "Wanna get out of here?”

Mickey nods vigorously.

 

*

 

“Fiona was like, “Get back early tomorrow,” like I’m a kid or something,” Ian tells him as they walk into a 7-Eleven after getting off the bus near Mickey’s place. 

“Probably wants you home,” Mickey says as he walks down the chip aisle. “You’re leaving for the army, man. I’d want you home.” 

Ian turns around from where he’s trying to decide between Doritos and popcorn, raising his eyebrows. 

“God, shut the _fuck_ up,” he says as Ian bursts into laughter. “You’re so – how do you have _friends?_ ” 

“Who says I do?” Ian manages between giggles. 

“I was just being nice, you probably fuckin’ don’t.” 

They leave with a shitload of food that’ll rot their teeth and Mickey almost slaps Ian when he tries to pay for it all again. On the walk back to Mickey’s, Ian bumps their shoulders together and Mickey pokes him in the side and maybe it’s because his street’s so dead or maybe it’s because he’s a little drunk, but Mickey lets the backs of their hands brush up against each other. He keeps his smile to himself.

 

*

 

“Did you like Lip?” Ian asks as he goes through Mickey’s kitchen cabinets because apparently judging his fridge wasn’t enough to hold him over. 

Mickey blows smoke out of his nose and shrugs. “Yeah.” 

Ian snorts and throws him a disbelieving a look. “You’re such a fucking liar.” When Mickey doesn’t respond he goes on, “It’s okay, you don’t have to. He’s an acquired taste, I guess.” 

“I don’t want to be an asshole about your brother, man,” Mickey says, arranging a few M&Ms into the letter ‘M’ like he and Mandy used to do when they were little. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Ian assures him before making a triumphant noise and waving around a bottle of Jack that Mickey doesn’t even remember buying. He grabs two glasses, a bag of chips, and goes into the living room. Mickey leaves behind his art project and follows.

 

*

 

He listens while Ian tells him about being sixteen and fucking his boss, about fucking Fiona’s boyfriend’s dad a few years after that. 

“Hope you know I’m not married, dude,” Mickey says. 

“You’re _not?_ This changes everything,” Ian says with a mockingly disappointed frown. “No, that phase is over.” 

“Fucked up phase.” 

Ian laughs. “Uh, ouch.” 

And then somehow Ian gets Mickey talking about the first guy he ever slept with and he thinks of Peter Weisman for the first time in years, a senior when Mickey was a freshman, some friend of Joey's. He tells Ian about how much it hurt because it was the first time anyone had ever fucked him, how Peter only told him he had a girlfriend when it was over, how shitty he felt for weeks afterwards. He’s never told anyone about it before and he can’t look at Ian while he speaks; he doesn’t want to think about the fact that he’s saying all this shit to someone who isn’t even going to _be here_ in a few hours, he doesn’t want to fucking think about it at all. 

Ian’s quiet long after he’s done speaking and Mickey spares a glance at him, suddenly paranoid. “What?” 

He shrugs, running a hand over his face. His legs are stretched out on Mickey’s beat-up coffee table; his t-shirt rides up a bit because of the way he’s sitting. “What’d he look like?” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know, just because.” 

Mickey hesitates, swirling the liquid in his glass around a few times. “Blonde. I guess.” 

“Blonde you guess,” Ian repeats softly. “Was he tall? Green eyes?” 

“I don’t remember, man,” Mickey mumbles, feeling weird and embarrassed like that night a million years ago. 

Ian smiles bitterly. “I had one of those. His name was Zach, not Peter.” 

Mickey opens and closes his mouth a few times before stuttering out, “Who’s… I mean–” 

“Ooh, god, you’re a terrible liar,” Ian says, laughing softly. “Lip told you?” 

Mickey shrugs. 

“It’s whatever. Doesn’t even matter anymore.” 

Mickey’s completely unconvinced, but he nods anyway. That’s the kind of shit you don’t push on.

 

*

 

Mickey can’t for the life of him remember how it even starts, but before he knows it, they’re sitting on the floor and they're yelling at each other. (Those two things aren’t directly related. At least he doesn’t think so.)

“You’re fucking delusional if you think people get married because they _love each other_ ,” Mickey sneers. “People get married for fucking _convenience_. Because someone’s pregnant, because they got nothin’ else goin’ on for them, because they think it’s what they have to fucking to do or whatever – don’t matter what it is, but it’s sure as hell not because they love each other.” 

“Jesus, that’s so fucking cynical,” Ian says, laughing incredulously. “You can’t tell me it’s not a pretty incredible thing for someone to stand up and say, 'I love this person, I want to be with them for the rest of my life,' when all the odds are against them, when people like you are telling them it's not even worth it.” He shrugs and when he speaks again, his voice is calmer. “Maybe people just want to be happy.” 

“Are you happy?” Mickey asks mockingly. 

“Are _you?_ ” Ian shoots back. 

“I’m fine,” Mickey snaps. 

“Of course you are.” 

“Don’t act like you fucking know me,” Mickey says bitingly. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me, Gallagher. Just because I’m not standing on a fucking roof and telling everyone I’m a faggot doesn’t mean I —” He cuts himself off and lets out a heavy breath, leaning his head back against the couch. He drags his gaze back over to Ian after a few seconds. “How are you even still — after that guy, how the _fuck_ do you even still think like that?” 

“Because I’m not an idiot, Mickey,” Ian says, shaking his head. “Completely giving up because of one shitty relationship is _stupid_.”

“That makes no fucking sense to me, man.” 

“ _You_ make no fucking sense to me. I mean, Jesus, haven’t you ever dated anyone?” 

It’s not a real question, just a general statement, but it hits home. And when Mickey’s quiet, Ian’s eyes widen, slowly understanding. “Mickey, have you never had a boyfriend?” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Don’t do what?” 

“Don’t look at me like I’m a fucking idiot.” 

“I’m not.” 

Mickey scoffs, turning his face away. 

“You don’t need to be so defensive, you know,” Ian says, gentler. “Not with me.” 

Mickey feels Ian’s hand grasp his bicep, not pulling him in or making him look up, just an idle grip. As if he just wants to be touching him, nothing more. 

“Never had a boyfriend ‘cause I don’t want one,” Mickey mutters. “And I ain’t never gonna want one.” 

“Okay,” Ian replies, accepting it. He inches his thumb under the sleeve of Mickey’s t-shirt and trails his finger over the skin there. “For the record, I think you’d make an amazing boyfriend.” 

He looks at Ian, at that upsettingly sincere expression, like he wants nothing more than for Mickey to believe him. It makes Mickey want to _run_. 

“I gotta take a piss,” Mickey says. 

He waits for Ian’s hand to fall away from his arm before retreating into the bathroom.


	3. saturday, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ian is brave in ways he’ll never be, ian is brave like no one he’s ever known.

It’s only when he hears muffled music from behind the door that Mickey realizes he’s been in the bathroom for too long. He heaves a sigh as he pushes himself off the bathtub ledge, doesn’t bother doing a fake flush or pretending to wash his hands. Ian’s smarter than that. 

The music turns out to be coming from his iPod dock, which Ian apparently found and took advantage of, and explains why he doesn’t recognize the song playing. Ian’s smoking out the window, his back to Mickey. He rolls his eyes at the whole fucking situation because seriously, _seriously_ , why does he _do_ shit like this to himself? 

He shakes his head and moves forward, nudging Ian’s side with his elbow. Ian doesn’t look surprised to see him; he complies without a word, making room for Mickey to stand beside him. He takes the offered cigarette and doesn’t let their fingers brush.

“Thought I heard fireworks,” Ian says quietly. 

“Probably just a gun.” It’s a bad joke, he knows before he even says it, but Ian doesn’t so much as wince. Either he somehow went briefly deaf and missed that one or Mickey’s so much of an asshole that it's expected, even from people he just met. 

Fuck everything, honestly. 

Mickey rubs a hand over his mouth, scratching a fingernail across his bottom lip. “Sorry, okay?” He tries to remember the last time he apologized for anything. “Sorry. I was being a dick.” 

“It’s fine,” Ian says. He reaches over for the cigarette, grabbing it right from Mickey’s fingers, and half-smiles as he takes one last drag before flicking the butt away. “Getting the sense that’s kind of normal for you.” 

Mickey snorts. “Look who’s being a dick now.” 

“Takes one to know one,” Ian says. He nods his head over to where the music is coming from. “My phone was dying, thought I’d charge it.” 

“And put on music,” Mickey adds. 

“And put on music,” he agrees, a bit sheepishly. “We can turn it off, I don’t know if it’s your thing.” 

“It’s not,” Mickey says automatically, and Ian shrugs. “But leave it, man, I don’t care. Who is it?” 

“Vampire Weekend.” 

Mickey gives him a dubious look. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

Ian laughs and pushes at his shoulder. “They’re _good_ , shut up. Are you even listening?” 

Mickey scowls. “If you wanted me to listen you shouldn’t have told me what their name is.” 

Ian rolls his eyes, clearly biting back another laugh. “Asshole. Does everything have to be difficult with you?” 

“There’s a band called _Vampire Weekend_ and _I’m_ the asshole?” 

Mostly he says it to see Ian laugh again because he's weak as hell. He’s got another insult brewing, something about irony and skinny jeans that he hasn’t fully constructed yet (he usually only makes fun of Mandy, this is good for him), but Ian cuts him off with a kiss, which, well, that’s okay, too. If you’re into that kind of thing. Which apparently Mickey is. 

It turns into something fairly quickly because they’re both still a little drunk, because even dumb music isn’t enough to stop Mickey from getting some when it’s offered to him. 

Mickey latches onto the collar of Ian’s shirt and tugs him into the hallway, intending to head straight for the bedroom but gets impatient and pushes him up against the wall instead. It makes Ian huff out a laugh as he practically rips Mickey’s shirt off and then immediately dives back in. 

Ian kisses him like he’s trying to open Mickey up and crawl inside. It’s bruising and full of teeth and tongue and Mickey gives back every ounce of it. His fingers wind tightly through Ian’s hair, keeping him close even when their lips part. 

He claws at Ian’s shirt, fumbling hurriedly with the buttons, and lets out a groan when he finally gets it off and there’s another t-shirt on underneath. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, man,” Mickey mutters. 

Ian grins and pushes his frantic hands away, stilling him long enough to get the offending article of clothing out of the way. “How about you just fuck me?” Ian suggests cheekily, raising an eyebrow and looking terribly proud of himself for coming up with that one. Something in Mickey’s chest turns over, aching. 

“Jesus Christ,” he manages before slamming their mouths together. Mickey grabs at Ian’s shoulders, runs his hands over his chest, his abs, his hips, like he’s trying to absorb him with his touch. He shoves a hand down the front of Ian's pants and Ian moans, bucking into him while Mickey moves to suck at his neck. 

It hangs over him that in a few hours he’s going to have to give this up, that in a few hours Ian’s gone, off to fucking _war,_ of all places. He’s going to have to let go of something he barely had in the first place, and if that isn’t some tragic gay bullshit, Mickey doesn’t know what is. (What might be even more tragic is that there’s no way to stop it from happening. And even if there was, it’s not like Mickey would be able to bring himself to try. Ian’s a fucking Officer, he’s not being drafted, he _wants_ this, and the thought makes him feel like his heart’s in his goddamn throat. Because Ian is brave in ways he’ll never be, Ian is brave like no one he’s ever known, and Mickey could never ask him to waste that bravery to fuck around with some closeted guy he met at a gay bar who really should’ve stayed a one-night stand.) 

Ian must feels his grip on his waist tighten because he pulls back, sets two hands on Mickey's arms, steadies him. He’s trying to make eye contact but Mickey won’t let it happen; he’s afraid of what he’ll do if Ian looks at him. When Ian presses his forehead against his own, he closes his eyes because _fuck_ , it doesn't even matter. Ian gets it anyway, doesn’t he? 

“Mickey,” he says quietly. 

“Just – come here, would you?” He leans up and kisses Ian again, and then they’re both tugging at each other’s jeans until they end up in a pile at their feet, which they somehow avoid tripping over as they make their way into the bedroom. 

For all Mickey tries to savor it, everything passes in a blur: collapsing with Ian onto the sheets, still an unmade mess from that morning, kicking their boxers away, kissing down Ian’s chest, taking his cock into his mouth. 

He moves at an unhurried pace, sucking lightly at the head, dragging his tongue in smooth, long licks along the length, driving Ian crazy and loving every second of it. Ian makes these soft encouraging noises, keeps his hands tangled in Mickey’s hair and tilts his hips up every so often, thrusting into his mouth. 

“Wait,” Ian says suddenly and Mickey glances at him, allowing himself to be pulled up, feeling rather than hearing the groan Ian lets out as their lips meet. He flips their positions easily, pressing Mickey down into the pillows as he fists their cocks together. 

Mickey’s so hard he can barely _see_. 

There’s lube on the bedside table where they left it from last time and Ian reaches for it, smiles at the strangled moan Mickey lets out when he works a finger inside of him, _fuck_. 

“Shut up,” Mickey grinds out. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Ian says, but the knowing grin is still there. 

Mickey’s reply dies on his tongue when Ian abruptly adds another finger. His whole body shudders but Ian only gives him what feels like _seconds_ to adjust before replacing his fingers with his cock, burying himself inside Mickey with one hard thrust. It’s so good Mickey has to bite down on Ian’s shoulder to keep from letting his whole building know what they’re doing. 

Their mouths meet half-heartedly, not kissing so much as touching, just because they can. Ian supports himself on his elbows, pounding into Mickey like he was fucking born to do it. 

And Mickey doesn’t know if he means to say it, doesn’t know if it’s just something in the heat of the moment, doesn’t even know if Ian’s aware of it, but he chokes out Mickey’s name against his neck, his voice deep and rough and desperate, and Mickey lets go. He moans and clenches down around Ian, and feels him follow a moment later, his dick pulsing deep within Mickey. 

He swears his entire world goes white for a minute.

 

*

 

The next few hours pass in a quiet, comfortable haze. They both fall in and out of sleep, curled up together under the comforter, Mickey’s head on Ian’s chest. The word “cuddling” passes through his mind and he almost projectile vomits because _no_ , that’s not what this is, Mickey Milkovich does not cuddle. (But he gives up trying to think of what else to call it in favor of focusing on how good it feels when Ian’s hand trails lazily up and down his back like that.) 

The sun is just starting to rise, early morning light peeking in through the curtains, and it's just enough for Mickey to be able to see Ian’s face clearly. He feels sort of delirious. 

“Ian,” he says. 

Ian’s eyes are closed, his mouth pressing against Mickey’s forehead, but he makes a soft noise to show he’s listening. 

“I don’t want you to—” He cuts himself off and tries to get his words in order. Ian waits patiently. “Don’t think I’m, like, some bitch.” 

“Why would I?” 

“Because I’m not… I dunno.” His words are sort of slurring together with how tired he is, but it feels vitally important that Ian know this _right now_. “When I’m at home, it’s fine. I’m fine.” 

“Fine?” 

“Yeah,” he says. He’s blinking rapidly, his eyes itching with how much they want to be closed. “I ain't all freaked out or anything, I don’t… wanna be straight. I’m not fuckin’, I don’t know, embarrassed. I don’t even think about it.” 

“But,” Ian adds, apparently sensing there’s something he’s not saying. 

“But it’s like when I go outside, to work or to see my friends or wherever, I can’t do it.” His voice trails off, and they’re both quiet for a long moment before he adds, “I don’t know why. It’s fucking pathetic.” Ian presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. Mickey relaxes into him, his fingers tracing an aimless pattern on Ian's hip. “For, like – for like, my whole life I thought liking dudes was the pathetic part, but. Nope.” 

“It’s okay,” Ian murmurs. 

“No, man, I’m a fucking adult,” he says quietly. “You know? Used to think that when I grew up it'd be easier, but it's not. I don’t get why I can’t… I don’t know. Be like you, or whatever. I guess.” 

Ian’s eyes open. He stares at Mickey through a half-lidded gaze, looking like he wants to say something. Mickey decides, whatever it is, he can’t handle it right then, so he leans up to preemptively silence him with a kiss. 

“It’s such bullshit but sometimes I wonder what my mom would say,” he says when they pull apart and have settled back in. “Wonder if I’d tell her. I don’t know. Stupid.” 

“No, it’s not,” Ian says. 

“She was fucked up but she wasn’t that bad to us,” Mickey mumbles around a yawn. “In some, like, other universe she coulda actually been a good mom.” 

“How would you tell her?” 

Mickey thinks about it for a while. He might nod off a few times but he blames that on the gentle way Ian’s hand is carding through his hair. “Guess I’d just say it. Like, 'Mom, I’m gay.' Right?” 

“Right,” Ian replies softly. “There you go.” 

Mickey smiles when he realizes what he means. “You shithead.” 

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “But you said it. Either way, you said it. Now stop beating yourself up so much. At least try. It’s not worth it.” He pauses and Mickey thinks he’s passed out before he adds, his voice heavy with sleep, “And for the record, I don’t think you’re a bitch. Wouldn’t still be here if I did.” 

The last thing Mickey can remember seeing before he falls asleep is a small smile playing at Ian's lips.


	4. sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i mean, two days. you know? two days is nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we have the ending to this beast! thanks to anyone and everyone who's come along for the ride with me, especially considering what a long ride it was. you are the most wonderfully patient group of humans ever and i want to hug you all individually and for an uncomfortably long amount of time.
> 
> also, i'm serious when i say that if you haven't seen _weekend_ yet, get on it.

Mickey wakes up in a mild panic when he throws his arm out and feels nothing but sheets, relaxing only when he hears movement in the kitchen. His eyes hurt from how bright the room is and his brain feels like it might actually be moving five thousand times slower than usual. The clock reads 10:17. 

He’s just barely moved himself into a sitting position and is rubbing harshly at his eyes when Ian walks back in, two cups of coffee in his hands. Mickey’s breath catches in his throat when he notices that he’s fully dressed. 

Fuck. 

“Morning,” Ian says quietly, sitting down next to him and passing a mug off. 

Mickey only grunts in return, knocking his shoulder gently against Ian’s. 

“What’re you doing today?” Ian asks. 

Mickey’s about to say nothing when he remembers Mandy and groans. “It’s my sister’s birthday. She’s havin’ some party.” He casts him a sidelong glance. “What time’s your flight?” 

Ian’s silent for a long moment before he says, “Why?” 

“So I can fuckin' beg you to stay, why do you think?” It comes out less ‘bitingly sarcastic’ and more ‘upsettingly honest’ than he’d intended. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, man.” 

“4:30 or something like that.” And he looks at him with the saddest fucking smile he's ever seen. It’s the kind of smile that makes all rational thought seem far away, the kind of smile that makes Mickey want to pull him back into bed and keep him there until he promises not to go. 

The urge is gone as quickly as it came, replaced with a resigned kind of finality. He knows he can’t change this. He _knows_ he can’t. 

Mickey rubs at his eyes and doesn’t reply.

 

*

 

He watches from the bed, still naked, while Ian slips his arms inside the sleeves of his jacket. He rubs at the two-day old stubble on his face as Ian sits down to put his shoes on. There’s a fleeting moment where Ian stares at him, eyes combing over his face, looking like he wants to say something, but instead he just leans in and pecks him on the lips. He goes back to his shoes and that’s all it is: a moment. 

“Ian,” he says quietly. 

Ian shushes him immediately. He reaches out and squeezes his arm, not lingering for a goddamn second, and glances at Mickey one last time before he grabs his phone off the nightstand and walks out. 

He presses a hand to the still-warm spot on the sheets Ian had been sitting in and sighs.

 

*

 

When he gets out of the shower there’s a text from Mandy waiting for him. Their conversation goes like this: 

 _YOU’RE COMING TODAY YEEEEES????????????_

_no_

_:)_

_you know im gonna fuckin be there, leave me alone_

_:)))))_

_are you broken?_

_:)))))))))))))_

_happy birthday, kill yourself_

_I love you too!!!_  

There are balloons in Mandy's window – one says ‘Birthday Bitch’ in big pink letters and another says ‘Queen for a Day!’ and he can’t decide which one nauseates him more. 

Seth answers the door, looking as eager to please as usual, and he lights up when he sees Mickey, waving like he’s not standing right in front of him. The kid’s just so goddamn unassuming that Mickey couldn’t hate him if he tried. (And holy shit, has he tried.) 

“Mickey!” He grins and pulls him into an enthuasiastic hug that Mickey doesn’t reciprocate. It doesn’t seem to bother Seth, who squeezes him once and lets go, holding him at arm’s length. “You kinda smell like a bar, dude.” 

“Imagine that,” Mickey replies, barely paying attention as he shoves past him into the apartment. Every room is done up in the tackiest dollar store birthday decorations he’s ever seen – it manages to get even worse than the balloons, which is truly an accomplishment. 

“Look who’s here,” Seth calls, trailing somewhere behind him. 

He nods his head in greeting at the few people who look up and smirks at Mandy, who’s sitting on the couch surrounded by a sea of presents and wearing a lopsided plastic tiara. She beams when she sees him and jumps to her feet, launching herself at him. 

“You came,” she says into his shoulder. 

“Fucking told you I would, dickface,” he says, his arms circling around her back. 

“You smell,” she says, happily enough. 

“Your boyfriend's stalking me,” he replies. He pulls away and pushes her shoddily wrapped present into her hands. “Happy birthday and shit.” 

She might say thanks but he’s already moving away towards where he sees the drinks halfheartedly arranged on the coffee table. He's overly aware of his phone in his jacket pocket. (For the record, he checks it a few minutes later when he can’t stand not knowing anymore and there’s no text from Ian waiting for him. So. Whatever.) 

He waits until after cake to duck outside for a cigarette. Any other day he wouldn’t give a shit about smoking in Mandy’s apartment but right now he just needs two seconds of not being surrounded by birthday cheer. He sits down on the steps leading up to her building and lights up. 

He gets through about two drags before the door is banging open behind him. 

Mandy’s buzzed and not hiding it well, teetering a bit before throwing herself down next to him. She’s eating a piece of cake with her fingers, has icing on her cheek, on her fucking nose, and Mickey can’t help it, he laughs. She grins back, but he’s at the end of his second cigarette by the time she speaks. 

“So are you gonna tell me what’s going on or do I have to guess?” She cleans the chocolate off her face with her sleeve, eyebrows raised at him. 

He rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your party?” 

“Oh, please.” 

“It’s _nothing_ ,” he says bitingly. 

“Look, don’t try and bullshit me,” Mandy says, exasperated. “I think I know you a little better than that.” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it with you, alright?” 

She snorts out a laugh. “Uh, _why?_ ”

“Uh, _because_ ,” he mocks. 

She punches him in the arm, because they’re nothing if not Milkoviches. “You are so goddamn exhausting, you know that?” She’s got that pissy look on her face that usually makes him laugh but at this particular moment is just making him tired. “Think of it as a birthday present to me.” 

“That’s a dumbass fucking present.” 

“Yeah, well, blame it on me caring about my stupid brother’s well-being.” 

“No. I gave you your present. You don’t get two, what do you think this is?” 

She lets out a long-suffering sigh and purses her lips. “I’ll give it back.” 

“You think _I_ want it?” 

“ _Mickey_.” 

“This ain’t the kind of shit we do,” he finally says, reaching his breaking point. “I — I never talk to you about—” The words seem to get stuck before he can finish his sentence. A look of understanding crosses Mandy’s face. 

“Yeah, I know you don’t,” she says unhappily, shaking her head as she turns away from him. 

Mickey looks down at his hands, picking at a nail, and gives up. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says quietly. “It’s – it’s fuckin’ ridiculous. I mean, the guy I met, Ian, you know, I met him _two days ago_. He don't know me, I don’t know him, but he – I mean, two days. You know? Two days is nothing.” He drags a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp with his nails, and shrugs. “I just feel like an asshole. Think it’s just ‘cause I’m hungover and tired and he’s gone and – whatever. I don’t know.” 

Mandy looks at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Well, you’re gonna see him when he gets back, right?” 

Mickey laughs humorlessly. “Nope. He ain't coming back. He’s going to the fucking army, so. That’s it.” 

“The _army?_ Holy shit.” There’s a pause and then: “Did he leave already?” 

He shakes his head. “Don't matter.” 

“Shut up. Did he leave already? If he didn't, go, take Seth’s car, see him before he’s gone.” 

He gives her a dubious half-smile. “Yeah, okay.” 

“He’ll shit himself with joy over the fact that he could help and you know it.” 

“I’m not leaving on your fucking birthday.” 

Mandy laughs. “Hate to break it to ya, but you've looked miserable since you got here. You’d be doing the party a favor.” She smiles at him, elbowing his side gently. “Come on, I'll get you the keys. Just go. Seriously.”

 

*

 

The airport is overflowing with people and Mickey has absolutely no time for any of it, because a clock on the wall tells him it’s already past four and he stills needs to find an entire person. 

He walks in circles around the main terminal for at least ten minutes before spotting Ian sitting in a chair, staring at nothing and biting his thumbnail. He tries to coach himself into saying something nice or clever or romantic, but Ian spots him before he can come up with much of anything. He doesn't look surprised to see Mickey as they meet each other halfway, just like that first night in the club. 

“What are you doing here?” Ian asks, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Mickey shrugs. “Nothin’ better to do.” 

Ian’s grin widens into something more genuine and he nods. “Right.” 

“Where’s your family?” He looks around for any giant mob he may have missed and sees nothing. 

“The last time they came to the airport with me I almost missed my flight,” Ian says, voice full of fond exasperation. 

Mickey smirks a little and shoves his hands in his pockets. After a second, he opens his mouth to say something but the words escape him. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to do this, you know, he’s always been horrible at words and somehow, all of a sudden, he’s expecting himself to find the right ones? 

Ian saves him and reaches out a hand, fisting it in his shirt, pulling him in a bit closer. “Mickey, I just want you to know—” 

“Gallagher, don’t you fucking dare,” Mickey warns, no real heat behind it. 

Ian frowns, looking like someone just kicked his dog. Or like, his dog and his little brother. “I wish I’d met you sooner,” he says, and he sounds so fucking earnest that Mickey can practically feel his entire being deflate. 

 _I wish you had, too. I’m sorry we didn’t. I like you so much more than I’ve liked anyone in a long fucking time._ It’s all right there, all on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t speak. Instead he just shakes his head and closes the bit of distance left between them, kisses Ian, _really_ kisses him, because he can’t imagine leaving it with just… nothing. He’s let too many things go in his life, let too many things end badly just because he was afraid of looking like a pussy, but he – he needs Ian to _know_ — 

Ian kisses him back, curling his fingers around his waist, pressing their lips together hard. When they pull away, Ian closes his eyes and butts his head gently against Mickey’s and Mickey can’t help it, he kisses him again, softer, shorter. 

A woman’s voice comes over the PA, saying something indistinct (or maybe it’s just indistinct to Mickey) and Ian braces his hands on Mickey’s arms, taking a step back. It takes all Mickey’s willpower not to pull him in again. 

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. 

Mickey shakes his head. “You didn’t do anything, man.” 

Ian's eyes are rimmed a suspicious shade of red, but neither of them comment on it. He leans in to kiss him one more time, tugging gently at Mickey's lower lip with his teeth.

"Okay," he murmurs. "Okay."

"Yeah," Mickey says. He pauses, reaching out to straighten the collar of Ian’s jacket. “Go.”

Ian gives him one last smile and Mickey's positive the image of it will be burned into his memory for good. 


End file.
